


Scraps of Chicago Lace

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Bros Being Good to Each Other, Established Relationship, Lace Panties, M/M, Nervousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Favs makes an impulse purchase on Amazon. Tommy approves.





	Scraps of Chicago Lace

**Author's Note:**

> This is a riff off a great Chicago-era Favs/Tommy idea that [Winterfold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/pseuds/winterfold) had and I think we should all pelt her with gifts until she writes it for us.

Tommy finds out about the panties on a Friday afternoon.

They eat lunch together on one of the couches in the back office. It’s past two; Jon had long morning meetings and Tommy has a late strategy session, so this made more sense. It means they have the room to themselves, and can tuck in next to each other, Tommy’s arm around Jon’s waist.

They chitchat a little and then fall into quiet munching, Tommy picking up his book and Jon picking up his Blackberry. Tommy likes them best like this, he thinks; doing their own things, but together. He snakes a couple of fingers into Jon’s waistband, just wanting to feel his skin and the possessive, contented feeling that comes with it. 

He feels … not just skin, and not the smooth elasticized cotton of Jon’s usual briefs, but the distinctive, scratchy feel of lace. 

“Uh,” Tommy says, and looks up from his book to catch Jon’s eye. Jon’s very stiff, and a tiny bit pink, and not looking at him. 

Tommy sets the book down.

“Hey,” Cody says, pushing the door open. “Favs, you got a second? Senator wants to change some wording on—oh, hey, Tommy.” He narrows his eyes. “You guys weren’t gonna defile this couch, too, were you? It’s bad enough the one at the house—”

Tommy rolls his eyes but pulls his arm back from Jon’s waist. “We were just eating lunch. You can have him now.” He grabs Jon’s hand as Jon gets up, though, and squeezes it. 

Tommy has to get through the rest of the day still thinking about … that. About what’s hiding under Jon’s slacks even now, when he’s meeting with the Senator. About Jon wearing _lace_ , wearing—probably, almost definitely, _panties_. Somehow, Tommy has to get through his whole fucking work day even though all he can think about is Jon in lace. 

That Jon didn’t even tell him—was Tommy going to get home tonight and find Jon waiting for him, maybe, nervous and half-naked and in fucking lace panties, wanting Tommy to drop his bags and skip dinner and just—

And now, instead, Tommy has to focus on his stupid job, as though that’s even possible.

When Tommy does get home, finally, ages later than he’d wanted, Jon is still fully dressed. He’s still in his slacks and his button-down, only his tie and his jacket and his shoes off. He’s definitely as nervous as Tommy had predicted, though. “How was your, uh, thing with Axe?” Jon asks, carefully looking only at his phone. 

“Fine,” Tommy says. “Cody’s out? You want to order pizza or something?”

Jon shrugs. He still isn’t looking at Tommy. If Tommy didn’t know better, he’d think Jon was mad at him, but that faint pink is back. “Yeah, he’s at Steph’s. I’m not that hungry.”

“I could wait to eat,” Tommy says, like an offering. He sets his messenger bag down and toes out of his loafers. “If there’s something else you wanted?” A beat slower, hoping it’s right but not sure, “Baby?”

Jon drops his head into his hands and laughs, which works for Tommy, honestly. He likes Jon best when they’re laughing together. “This is so dumb,” Jon says. “Look, I’ll—I’ll take them off and we’ll never speak of this again, okay?”

“Um—" _Not_ okay, Tommy thinks. “I don’t even get to see you in them?”

Jon looks up at him, finally, hands crossing over his chest instead. “Oh, you—you’d want—"

“Yeah,” Tommy fills in, and his voice breaks on it. “It’s all I could think about all day, are you kidding? I had to talk to the Senator about messaging and most of my brain was stuck on—” he falters, isn’t sure what words he can use right now. “You. In—them. Whatever they look like.”

Jon uncrosses his arms, scrubs the heel of one hand down his thigh. “There are—I bought—it was a deal on Amazon, I got, like, a grab-bag. So there’s, uh. A bunch of different ... kinds.”

 _Fuck_ , Tommy needs to see Jon in at least this one pair, now, or he’s going to burn up from the inside. “Take your pants off,” he says, meaning to make it a request but landing firmly, tonally, on order. 

He means to walk it back, too, but Jon is already fumbling with his belt, so Tommy just ... doesn’t. “Your shirt, too,” he says instead, and, “I want the whole picture, baby.”

Jon laughs again, but his hands are shaking on his shirt buttons. “This is—so dumb,” he says. “But, uh. Hot, too.”

“Super fucking hot,” Tommy agrees, and crosses the room to help him.

He gets Jon’s shirt undone and mostly down his arms before he thinks to start moving them off the couch and into Jon’s bedroom, the one with the bigger bed. He wants to have plenty of room to move and no need to get up until they’ve had their fill. “C’mon,” he says, and Jon pulls the shirt the rest of the way off and leaves it on the couch.

Jon’s ahead of him, but stops at the edge of the bed, drumming his fingers on it. “Climb up,” he tells Jon. He needs to recalibrate back to requests. He will, but not while Jon is still fucking jumping to do everything he says. It’s too heady, watching Jon scuttle back on the comforter, watching Jon wait for Tommy to tell him the next thing. 

He doesn’t want Jon to have to wait long. “Get your fly open,” he says, and then yanks Jon’s slacks from the ankle, Jon lifting up to free them. Tommy keeps his eyes down until they’re off and crumpled on the floor; he wants the full picture, all at once.

He looks up just as Jon is starting to cover his crotch with one splayed hand. “Let me see,” Tommy tells him, and Jon slowly pulls it back. 

He looks—fucking hell. He looks human, first of all—he hasn’t shaved, and his balls don’t really fit in the panties (the _panties_ , Tommy’s brain repeats, over and over), and his dick is sticking out of them for lack of space. He’s bursting out of the little scraps of blue lace, and it’s—

“Um,” Jon says, and coughs. “Is it—okay?”

It looks like it might have hurt, wearing those all day. And Jon kept them on, anyway. Because he liked them. Because he thought Tommy would. 

“You look beautiful,” Tommy says, meaning it more than he knows how to say. “You—wow.”

“Uh—thanks,” Jon says. “Can you come up here now?”

Tommy wants to keep staring. He wants to grab the hand Jon is clearly desperate to cover up with and pin it down, instead. He climbs up, instead, hands and knees above Jon. He is, he realizes suddenly, still fully dressed. “Hi,” he murmurs, and leans down to kiss Jon for the first time since he got home.

Jon surges up, grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him down. Jon, Tommy realizes, has been even more desperate today than Tommy has. 

He shakes a hand between them to feel the lace again, to feel the way Jon shudders when Tommy grabs him through it. “Gorgeous,” Tommy says into Jon’s mouth. “Beautiful. So fucking pretty like this, baby,” and Jon gasps, hips bucking up against him. “Oh, you like that?”

Jon doesn’t respond; he’s too busy kissing and grinding, grabbing Tommy’s shoulders and keeping him close. He’s lost in it, and Tommy wishes he could peer into Jon’s brain and find out which part of this is making him so desperate—the waiting? the too-snug elastic digging into him? the cross-dressing, the names, the unequal nudity?

Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe Tommy can try every part of it with him, over and over, to see Jon like this, needy and panting, any time he likes. “So fucking beautiful,” Tommy says, kissing Jon’s jaw and his neck, squeezing his cock. “So fucking hot in these panties, Jon.”

Tommy wants his own pants off, but not as much as he wants to keep touching Jon, keep kissing him and telling him how good he looks. He can get off after. He has some ideas for that. 

“C’mon, baby,” he says. He pauses long enough to lick his own palm slick and gets it back down, under the panties so he can stroke Jon without worrying about the scratch of the lace. Jon is so hard now he’s barely in them at all, anyway, the waistband tight under the base of his cock.

He wants to lean back and see it, Jon wrecked and red-chested and writhing under Tommy’s hand, but Jon is gripping him so tight. “Let me up,” Tommy says. “Jon, baby, let me—I want to see you, okay? Want to see how pretty you are when you come for me.” He wants to cringe at the way it sounds like porn dialogue, but it’s kind of working for him, and it’s really fucking working for Jon, so he lets it flow. “Need to see you come all over yourself, baby.”

Jon’s fingers tighten on him, and then release, and Tommy sits up and looks down at him. 

Jon looks like a feast, and he feels even better. Tommy has a hand free, now, to run over Jon’s sweat-shiny chest, to cup Jon’s throat and watch his breath catch. 

Mostly, though, to bring down until he can feel the fabric on Jon’s hips, and the red marks where it’s been digging into them, and the softness of his thigh where it’s just brushed by little scallops of lace.

Jon is staring up at him, face screwed up in pleasure. He looks gorgeous like this, _wanting_ it. Tommy wants to give him everything, make him come until he’s a puddle on the comforter. He wants, suddenly and mouth-wateringly, to suck him, but Jon is too close. Tommy wants to watch him come more. 

He strips Jon’s cock harder, twisting his fist around it, and Jon’s eyes snap shut, his chin coming up. His arms are all tight muscle, straining as his hands grip Tommy’s thighs. “Yeah, baby,” Tommy says. “Come on, gorgeous, that’s—just like that, c’mon, I want you to.”

Jon starts spilling onto his belly, onto Tommy’s fingers, almost without another sign. He’s already tensed, already braced, already holding his breath. “Beautiful,” Tommy tells him, watching the way he’s getting it striped up his chest. “So fucking pretty, Jon. God, I fucking love you, baby.” He’s rambling now, and the second Jon starts to twitch from oversensitivity, Tommy has his hands on his own fly. Fuck getting his pants or his shirt off; fuck anything that could delay him getting his hand on his cock. 

His fingers are wet with Jon’s come, and Jon is looking up at him now, pupils blown out. “Tommy,” Jon says, and Tommy just nods, can’t find any more words. “Tommy, come up here and I’ll—” Tommy shakes his head. There’s no time, there’s no—and he wants to do it like this, to come on Jon’s chest and his dick and maybe on the lace, too, maybe—maybe mess it up and have to buy Jon new ones to wear for him, maybe— “Jesus,” he gasps, and catches himself on one hand as he starts coming, jerking it out onto Jon’s belly.

He’s too lost in it to aim, in the end. “Next time,” he mumbles, just for himself. He takes a deep breath, and another, and stretches his jaw. “Fuck, baby, that was—really good.”

“Yeah?” Jon says, soft and hesitant. “You, um—not too weird for you?”

Tommy could almost laugh, except that Jon does have weird hang ups, sometimes, and he might really want the reassurance. “God, no,” he says, and leans in to kiss him, his stomach brushing Jon’s sticky one. “So hot, Jon. Like, crazy fucking hot. Not weird at all.” 

He thinks, and doesn’t know how to say, that Jon is—brave, to make himself vulnerable like this, to try something even though he thinks it might be too weird for Tommy. “Love you,” he says again. He needs to grab a rag from the nightstand, but it’s hard to focus on practicalities when Jon is breathing “you, too” into his mouth.

The elastic must still be digging in, though, and it’s that thought that motivates Tommy enough to peel off of Jon. “Toss ‘em in the corner,” he suggests, and Jon wiggles out of them. Tommy presses a rag to the come on Jon’s belly, and stares at the red marks on his flanks. “Did they—hurt?” he asks, putting his fingertips there. 

“Uh—a little,” Jon says. “Not too much.”

Tommy balls up the rag and tosses it blindly to the floor. “Is it fucked up that that’s super hot?” he asks. “Not, like—not if it really hurt, just—like. A little.”

Jon reaches up to Tommy’s shoulder and pulls him down until he’s half on top of Jon, head on Jon’s shoulder. “Not too fucked up,” Jon says, quiet, into Tommy’s hair. “I kind of liked it. Too.”

Tommy’s silent for a minute. He’s half asleep already, even though it’s early. If they nap now, their sleep schedule will be fucked all weekend, but Jon is warm against him, and his eyes won’t stay open. 

A thought catches him just before sleep. “A grab-bag?” 

Jon’s chest moves under him, a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Like—like eighteen pairs.”

“Awesome,” Tommy mumbles. He hears a faint, pleased laugh, and then he’s asleep.


End file.
